


Let Me Complain, Kiss Me Better

by Kisleth



Series: Though Scattered Across the Universe, We'll Always Find Each Other [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint is a big baby, Clint is miserable when he's sick, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:53:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/pseuds/Kisleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's sick and likes to complain to the only one who'll listen</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Complain, Kiss Me Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdamantSteve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/gifts).



> To Ada, because she's sick
> 
> Also, as a note to everyone who follows me as to why I haven't posted anything in a while:
> 
> I'm working on my first long, chaptered, not-a-collaboration fic and I'm nearing 20 thousand words. I'm hoping to finish it by the end of April, but who knows how long it might get before then? I hope you all stick around for it!

Clint is bad at getting sick. Bad at  _being_ sick. He's never sick, he always gets his shots and takes medications to prevent getting sick. He's Mr Fit-As-a-Fiddle, Mr Healthy-As-a-Horse. Color him surprised when he's brought down by the sniffles after a long op in a high nest when it was windy and rainy for the three days he was up there. He's curled up on the couch with a heating pad under his bruised side and an electric blanket (and another, fuzzier blanket on top) bundled tight around him. He groans pathetically.

"It's a miracle you didn't get hypothermia." Phil says from the kitchen where he's cooking. Something. Clint can't tell. His nose is so stuffed up that his ears are being wonky.

"Or pneumonia." Clint grouses and tries to sniffle but his nose is stoppered up quick and he makes pitiful, aborted inhales and hacks up phlegm for his trouble. "Fuck, tha's gross." His voice sounds weird.

"You can't get pneumonia from being cold and wet." Phil retorts practically.

"Can too."

"Can n—" Phil stops himself and sighs as if he dodged a bullet. As if a little, possibly-maybe childish argument was really that big of a deal. "Clint."

Clint doesn't respond, mashing his face into his pillow and slurping a little as he starts to drool. He wants to be huffy and mad because Phil is seconds away from telling him 'I told you so' for not dressing better when they had full knowledge of the weather. 

("I don't need  _sleeves_ , Coulson, jeez." Clint had complained. "They'll mess up my aim."

"Yes, well, don't come complaining or sniffling at me when you get sick."

"I  _never_ get sick." Yeah, good job there, Barton.)

He might have fallen asleep, but he'll never admit to it, because he had been listening to Phil chop something up before and now Phil is setting it down on the coffee table and sitting on the edge of the cushion Clint's on. "Hey, Clint?"

Clint gives a grumbly whine and cracks an eye open despite his headache.

Phil presses their foreheads together to check Clint's temperature before helping him sit up. "C'mon, babe, dinner time." Clint makes a protesting noise, until Phil snuggles in with Clint propped against him. The next noise could only be described as pathetic and inquisitive. "Open up." Clint opens an eye to see that Phil is holding a spoonful out for him while he lays on Phil's chest and cradled between his legs.

He stops complaining as Phil feeds him hot soup. And when he can't eat any more, Phil sets the bowl on the floor and snuggles down into the cushions, letting Clint smoosh him into the couch and drool on him. He kisses Clint's clammy forehead and Clint swears he feels infinitely better, even though he's still too cold and can't breathe through his nose and everything aches.

They're both uncomfortable and yet comfortable and neither wants to move.


End file.
